The Borribles (7 page)

Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti

BOOK: The Borribles

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It was dark when he awoke and he felt very cold, having neglected to creep under his blankets. He sat up and shook himself and rubbed his body vigorously to get the blood running. Getting to his feet he groped for the light switch. What time could it be? Not that the others needed him any more but he would have liked to have seen them off. He made for the stairs and ran down them, two at a time.

On the landing he bumped into Spiff who was coming from his room with some papers in his hand. ‘Aha, there you are, Knocker,’ he said and beamed at the chief lookout. ‘Got your lads downstairs, just going to give them a word or too, can you come down?’

‘Course,’ answered Knocker, and followed Spiff to the basement.

The Eight were all present and correct. They too had spent a restless time, though they had tried their hardest to sleep to ready themselves for the rigours of the night.

They looked very soldier-like, thought Knocker as he examined them. Warmly dressed, their hats cocked jauntily over their ears, they stood tense and straight, glancing occasionally at their watches or compasses. Most impressive and warlike of all were the double bandoliers of stones they wore and the shiny, lethal catapults stuck into their pockets. The Adventurers shone with health, their skins glowing, but they could not conceal their impatience. They wanted Spiff to say what he had to say and then let them get on the road.

Spiff rustled his papers. ‘You’ll be off in a minute, so I won’t keep you long. I just want to remind you of the object of your expedition. Whatever happens you must not forget it. It is to knock out the Rumble
High Command, eliminate them. We want no more of them in our part of London. They must be shown that they can’t come down here whenever they think they will and move on to our manor. Whatever happens to you, and we all know the dangers you face, if you eliminate your target, your name will be confirmed and remembered. You have the luck to be going on the greatest adventure anyone has ever heard of.’

Knocker shuffled his feet and wished Spiff would stop making a meal of it. He was feeling sorry for himself and wanted the Eight out of sight, out of mind.

But Spiff hadn’t quite finished. ‘You’ve a long way to travel, a dangerous way, and a difficult, perhaps impossible task to accomplish, and I’m sure I speak for all Borribles when I wish you the best of luck. And don’t get caught.’

The speech was over and Knocker and Spiff watched as the Adventurers stepped forward to pick up their rucksacks. With a nod for Spiff and a nervous smile for Knocker they left the room one by one. The last to leave was Napoleon. He stood by the open door, looking trim and dangerous; his eyes were bright and excited. His face broke into a cocky and unpleasant smile.

‘Sorry you ain’t coming, Knocker,’ he said triumphantly, ‘but I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.’ And he slid silently out into the darkness.

Knocker swore and rushed across the room and shoved the door hard with his foot so that it slammed and shook the house.

Spiff sat down at the table and looked at Knocker’s back while he opened the enormous rule book he’d been reading that morning. ‘Over here, Knocker,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a farewell present too.’

‘Stuff the present,’ said Knocker ungraciously, but none the less he crossed the room to sit down opposite Spiff.

Spiff ignored Knocker’s remark. ‘Well, here it is,’ he said. ‘I’m going to read it to you, only once, so you’d better listen … This is from the
Borrible Book of Rules,
paragraph thirty-four, subsection three a. I quote, “No Borrible who is already named may go on any name adventure whatsoever, he may not even go on a non-name adventure if a Borrible who has no name wishes to take precedence. This rule is unalterable and no exceptions may be made at all, ever.”’

Spiff drew a breath and ran his finger to a note at the bottom of the page.

‘“Except for the following exceptions.”’ He pursed his lips to stop from smiling as Knocker looked up sharply.

‘“One. A named Borrible may take part in a name adventure when no other un-named Borrible is available. The choosing of the named Borrible in such a case will be by drawing lots.”’

Knocker looked down at the table again.

Spiff went on. ‘“A named Borrible may take part in a name adventure when a vacancy occurs through accident or injury at the last moment and there is no time to draw lots.”’ Spiff looked up. ‘That’s a very useful one that is, very useful, I’ve nobbled a dozen or so in my time, I can tell you … Do you know, I’ve got more’n a few names myself, maybe a score … Never believe it to look at me, would you? Oh yes, you have to know yer way round the old rule book, can’t break the rules until you know the rules, but let’s get down to exception seven two. It’s one I haven’t used before.’

Spiff coughed and put on a special voice. ‘“When an expedition is deemed to be exceptional and outstanding, a named Historian may accompany the expedition to record its deeds for later inclusion in the
Borrible Book of Proverbs.
He may act in an advisory capacity only, taking no part in the actual adventure, be it fighting or stealing, etc., etc …”’ He paused for effect. ‘“ … until such time as all members of the adventure have won their names by performing the tasks allotted to them. At that time the Historian becomes equal with the expedition and may join entirely in the expedition.”’

Spiff closed the book with a bang and looked at Knocker, who was dying to smile and laugh and shout all at the same time but didn’t want to in case he’d misunderstood.

Spiff winked and jerked his head. ‘How would you like to be an Historian, Knocker? Never been one of those, have you?’

‘No,’ said Knocker, his heart thumping.

Spiff rose to his feet. ‘Right, Knocker, clothes are in the cupboard, and a knapsack; everything’s there, I did it myself this afternoon. Get changed. Don’t want to miss the boat, eh? Ho, ho!’

Knocker dashed into the cupboard and threw off his everyday clothes and got into the set of expedition gear that was hanging ready behind the door. As he changed Spiff talked to him, for he had much to say before Knocker left.

‘Don’t worry,’ he began, suddenly serious, ‘they don’t know you’re coming but they won’t go without you. I sent Lightfinger down there with some cock and bull story. He won’t let them away till you arrive.’ Spiff was silent for a minute or two, watching Knocker’s preparation with more attention than the event deserved.

‘Do you want to know the real reason you’re going?’ he asked at last.

Something in Spiff’s voice made Knocker stop tying his bootlaces and he listened intently.

‘Real reason?’ he queried.

‘Yes, the real reason. Look, you will have to be Historian, write it all down when you get back and all that cobblers, but it don’t really matter, see, long as it looks like you are obeying the rules, but as soon as the Eight have won their names or look like winning their names, brother, you move.’

‘Move?’

‘Double fast,’ Spiff said, his sharp expression getting sharper. ‘I’ve had reasons for setting this adventure up … and now I’m telling you. In those Rumble manuals they hint about a treasure they’ve got hidden, tons of it. We need that treasure down here, Knocker, and you’re the Borrible to get it.’

‘But Spiff!’ Knocker was appalled. ‘Money ain’t Borrible, we’re not supposed to touch it, or have anything to do with it.’

‘And look how we live, Knocker, nicking grub, abandoned houses … That money could make a difference. I know what I’m talking about; I’ve been around since the days of the old queen, Victoria I mean. We suffered then, really suffered … Now I know you want a second name more than anything on earth, and I’ll see you get it, but only if you do what I say. I’ve been waiting years for this chance, and I’ve wangled it so you can sort things out, Knocker. You get the Rumble treasure and I’ll see you get another name, maybe two, the sky’s the limit … But whatever you do, don’t tell anyone what you’re up to, especially Wazzisname Boot. I know the Wendles, inside out, back and front, up and down. They’re trouble, real trouble. Above all, watch out for one called Flinthead; he’d kill you for the fun of it. Believe you me, if you get on the wrong side of him your life won’t be worth a fiddler’s fart.’

Knocker’s face paled. ‘But this is an adventure within an adventure,’ he said, coming closer to Spiff.

‘That’s right, Knocker, it is. I’ll see you get your second name all right, but it’s going to be bleedin’ dangerous and don’t think it isn’t.’

Spiff closed an eye to indicate that he’d said his say; Knocker pushed his arms into his haversack straps and went to the door. ‘A second name, bloody hell. I’d best be off then.’

‘That’s about the size and shape of it,’ said Spiff.

Knocker opened the door and felt the coolness of the night on his face. He looked round the room one last time. ‘Goodnight, Spiff, and thanks. Don’t get caught.’

‘You’re the one who needs to remember that,’ said Spiff. ‘There’s ten million dangers in that city out there … Now go, son, and say nothing to no one.’

Once in the open Knocker looked up through a fine rain to the few stars in the sky and hoped they were his lucky ones. Then he took a deep breath and ran with a loping stride down the High Street towards Battersea church, the knapsack bumping on his back. The pavements were empty and shone damply in the reflected light of the street lamps; his footsteps echoed from the wet walls of the black buildings and his heart sang and bubbled within him. He still could not believe it. He was going—going on the best expedition he’d ever heard of—the Great Rumble Hunt.

Twenty yards from St Mary’s church he halted and listened carefully. Lightfinger rose from behind a dustbin.

‘Knocker,’ he whispered.

‘Knocker.’

‘It’s OK, over here.’

Knocker went forward and patted Lightfinger on the shoulder. ‘I’m going,’ he said.

‘I know,’ answered Lightfinger. ‘You must have lost your marbles. This expedition is madness … It’s all down to Spiff, I bet. I’m not even sure it’s Borrible.’

Knocker crossed the churchyard and climbed on to the embankment wall.
The Silver Belle Flower
lay just below him, rocking gently in the slight swell that came from midstream. The oars were out and Napoleon was giving whispered commands to keep the boat from banging against
The Raven.
Seven white faces and one black one looked up as Knocker
jumped down to join them. He saw amazement in their expressions; how would they take it? But then did he care? It was his adventure, too, now. Whatever they said, whatever they thought, he was going.

Knocker had boarded at the stern, by the rudder, and he sat down and faced Napoleon, who was in the stroke seat.

‘I’ll row, you steer,’ said Knocker putting his face close to the Wendle’s.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Napoleon, half rising, the question full of suspicion, his face tight with anger.

‘I mean,’ said Knocker, ‘that I’m coming with you.’

There was no one to see them off but Lightfinger, and he watched the boat edge slowly round the stern of
The Ethel Ada
like a huge insect with only four legs. Darkness covered the craft and soon Lightfinger could only hear the voice of Napoleon giving orders: ‘Paddle, stroke side, ease up, bow. Hands on the gunwale, number five. Forward all.’ When Lightfinger could hear no more he turned and walked quickly away, glad that he had no part in the Great Rumble Hunt, glad that he was to have nothing to do with the murky and perilous Thames.

The Silver Belle Flower
crept out from the shelter of the barges moored along the southern side of the river, but not too far out. Napoleon wanted to be within easy reach of the bank and its complicated blackness; should a police launch appear the Borribles would need to take cover in the shortest possible time.

Napoleon let the boat drift until the bow was pointing westwards, then he tensed his muscles and gripped the two rudder strings tightly.

‘Come forward,’ he whispered. The crew leant towards him in their seats. ‘Paddle,’ said the navigator, and the boat sprang upriver like a live thing, eager to be under way.

Nobody spoke except Napoleon, there was too much work to be done. Every rower was concentrating his whole body, every bit of his brain, on handling his oar as cleanly as possible. The water surged below the boat and lifted it regularly, trying to bear it backwards and down to the sea. Occasionally a dark mass of barges, lashed together into one rigid floating city, slid by them, towed or pushed by a small tug. Mysterious lights gleamed and men with deep voices called to one another, and from either shore came the distant groan of traffic, trapped in the
streets. It was nearly midnight, and small and fearful on the Thames the Borribles soon lost the sense of time and place. No matter; as the rowers’ technique improved, a feeling of exhilaration passed from one to the other and Napoleon, who had never been out on the great river before, let alone in command of his own ship, was bursting with pride. He could have sailed for ever.

But the swift tide was against them and it took most of their effort to stay in the same place. There was no ornamental pleasure lake beneath them now, instead a sinuous monster had them in its vigorous grip, with rolling ropes of muscles that could shatter a boat like a walnut caught in the crook of a navvy’s arm.

They clawed every inch of the way, leaving Battersea Church and moving up to Ransome’s Dock, where Eaton House and Archer House stood at the end of Battersea High Street. Underneath the grey girders of Battersea Railway Bridge it was blacker than black, but Napoleon kept them rowing, exerting their arms and legs to the uttermost. To the north was Chelsea Creek and Lots Road LTE Generating Station. Far ahead, glowing crimson in the night sky, at the end of Battersea Reach, was Fulham Power Station, a beacon for the night’s work.

Napoleon watched his crew carefully, determined not to overtire them, and before long he decided to take cover and let the Borribles rest and eat. His instructions came clearly and the boat slipped into the southern shore and came to a halt between two enormous barges.

‘Ship your oars,’ commanded Napoleon, and he went bounding over the benches to tie the boat’s painter to a cable which ran from one of the barges to a huge buoy. That done he returned to the stern of the boat and shoved his face up against Knocker’s.

‘Well,’ said Napoleon, and there was hatred in his voice, ‘how did you fiddle this then?’

The attention of the others was caught by the question. How had Knocker managed to get himself included in the expedition?

‘I’m not here as an Adventurer,’ said Knocker. He didn’t sound too sure of his argument. ‘It was Spiff’s idea. In the rules there’s a provision for exceptional adventures … It allows an Historian to go along and write it all down … for the story … Spiff asked me to come, at the very last moment, that’s all. I couldn’t refuse really, not that I wanted to.’

Orococco beamed. ‘I’m glad, pleased to see you with us.’

‘Well I ain’t,’ said Napoleon, speaking through his teeth. ‘There’s something dodgy going down here. I don’t trust Spiff and I don’t trust you, Knocker; you’re as crooked as a pair of concertinas.’

‘Oh it’s all right,’ said Vulge. ‘After all, he knows all about parks and countryside and stuff … useful in Rumbledom.’

Napoleon narrowed his eyes. ‘Useful is as useful does,’ he said. ‘Let’s get one thing clear, Knocker-two-face, your status as instructor is over, you don’t give any orders. All decisions will be arrived at jointly, and you’re included out.’

‘Well of course.’ Knocker tried to sound reassuring. ‘I won’t even give my opinion unless you ask for it. You see, I can’t take part in the adventure until you’ve all got your names, though I can use my catapult in self-defence.’

Napoleon thought for a while. ‘I’ll be watching you, Knocker,’ he said, ‘awake and asleep. You step out of line and I’ll rattle your skull.’ He pursed his lips and when the others were not listening he leant close to Knocker and whispered in his ear, ‘I don’t believe that’s all you’ve come for—just to be an Historian.’

Knocker pulled his head back. ‘I’ve come for the adventure, that’s all. What other reason could there be?’

‘I dunno,’ said Napoleon, ‘but there’s something in the wind and I can smell it.’ And he scowled and shoved a sandwich into his mouth, munching the bread with hatred.

The Adventurers stayed in the shadows by the barges for two hours, then, rested and fed, they took up the oars once more. There was not much of the night left to them, and they would need to be well under cover before the slightest hint of dawn should appear in the sky.

‘We ain’t going much further,’ said Napoleon. ‘We’ll hide along by Fulham Power Station.’

They rowed on. Several large tugs passed dangerously close to
The Silver Belle Flower,
causing it to ship a little water, but the Borribles passed unseen and there was no sign of police launches. Napoleon peered into the darkness, his eyes keen, like some mariner of the high seas eager for a landfall. Just before dawn he spied what he had been searching for, a cluster of four or five moored barges, and in the middle
of them, he hoped, a space of calm water, large enough to lie low in during the coming day. Another night and a little more rowing would put them at the mouth of the Wandle. There they could conceal the boat and begin their long trek overland.

‘One last good pull,’ said Napoleon, ‘and then we can rest.’

The Borribles worked with a will and they shot across the river, the greasy waves striking
The Silver Belle Flower
on the beam, making her lurch and shudder.

‘Keep pulling,’ shouted Napoleon. ‘One two, one two.’ He gave a sharp tug on the rudder strings, the boat changed direction, and his eyes found the gap he sought between the barges.

‘Ship yer oars.’

The rowers obeyed with relief, their craft sailed into a little haven of steady water and Napoleon secured the boat fore and aft.

‘How do you think we’ve done then?’ asked Stonks, massaging his biceps.

‘Good,’ said Napoleon. ‘We’ll stay here all day, and when it’s dark we’ll go on to Wandsworth Bridge, then it’s only a spit and a jump to the River Wandle.’

It was decided to leave two Borribles standing guard while the others slept. Knocker volunteered for the first two hours, and Orococco stood with him. The remainder of the crew unrolled their sleeping bags and curled up as best they might in the bottom of the boat. Knocker kept his watch looking down the grey dawn of the river, while Orococco stared upstream and hummed a Borrible song as a kind of lullaby for his companions, a lullaby they did not need, so exhausted were they.

‘River, river, the dawn is breakin’
On shadow and wave and wharf and wall
And the sun’ll soon be appearin’, river,
Like a big red ball.

‘River, river, stop fer a minute;
I know yer journey never ends,
But the city is comin’ ter life, river,
All of yer friends!

‘River, river, listen, the yawnin’!
Good and bad dreams are nearly gone,
Bottles are clinkin’ on doorsteps, river;
The world’s movin’ on.

‘River, river, windin’ ferever,
I reckon you’ve seen it all before.
Wot’s night’s endin’ ter you, river?
Just one daybreak more.’

The Thames was busy now. The two lookouts could hear the sound of hooting tugs and the swish and the slap of the waves thrown up by passing barges, low in the water, nearly sinking under the weight of tons and tons of cargo: coal for the power stations and containers bound for the London Docks.

The first hour of the watch soon passed and Knocker was beginning to feel sleepy when he heard a very slight noise above him on the deck of the nearest barge. He tensed his muscles, slid his catapult from his back pocket and loaded it with a stone from his bandolier. Slowly he stood up and pulled the chunky elastic back so that it was half ready. He glanced quickly up the boat but Orococco was facing the other way, his head nodding. He looked asleep; Knocker waited.

The boat rocked and the Borribles slept on. A scrabbling sound, very cautious, came from above. It seemed to Knocker that someone was trying to find a way out from underneath the tarpaulin that covered the lighter which gave them protection on the shore side. Knocker ran his gaze along the iron wall of the barge, along the crisscross of ropes that held the tarpaulin down. He could see nothing. Again he looked towards the other end of the boat. Orococco’s head still nodded.

The scrabbling noises stopped. Then Knocker heard the noise of a knife cutting through canvas. He pulled the rubber of his catapult tighter, but as yet he had nothing to aim at. Suddenly a small figure dressed in green and brown burst into view on the very edge of the barge right above
The Silver Belle Flower.
Whoever it was had his back towards Knocker, who, aiming for the kidneys, pulled his catapult
to its full extent and let fly. He heard a pained intake of breath and the intruder teetered back and forth as if he could not decide which way to fall.

At that moment Orococco turned, his catapult in his hand. He had been feigning sleep, only waiting for the unseen enemy to appear. He took in the situation, saw the enemy and fired, but luckily, as it proved, he missed. As Orococco’s stone sped from his catapult the newcomer lost his balance and fell headlong and heavily into the boatload of Borribles, landing in a crumpled heap between Knocker and the first seat. Knocker let fall his catapult and leapt on the interloper, holding him down while Orococco stumbled over the sleeping forms of his companions to give assistance.

In spite of the blow from the stone and the fall from the barge the new arrival put up a spirited struggle. He shouted in some strange language and twice managed to get to his feet, before finally he was pinioned to the deck by the two guards. By this time Stonks and Torreycanyon were awake and the combined weight of the four Borribles was too much for the foreigner. With a sigh and a curse he stopped struggling.

‘All right, all right, I give no more trouble,’ he said, his English heavily accented.

‘Give us a bit of rope,’ said Knocker to Napoleon, who had also come awake. ‘We’ll tie him up and see what we’ve caught.’

Bingo, too, was out of his sleeping bag and he climbed up the side of the barge to make sure there was no one else who might give them trouble. Vulge followed him but they returned in less than a minute; it was all clear. No one else on the barges, nothing suspicious on the river.

The Borribles looked down at their prisoner.

‘Is it a normal, a child?’ asked Chalotte.

Napoleon bent over and pulled off the balaclava hat in leather that the captive was wearing. The ears were pointed, very much so. The Adventurers had captured a Borrible, and moreover a foreign Borrible.

‘Could you please rub me here, on the back?’ said the foreigner in his strange voice. ‘That stone you catapulted hit me hard.’

Stonks, who was kind as well as very strong, lifted the prisoner on to a seat and massaged him for a while.

‘Oh, thank you, thank you. I feel better now.’

‘You’re a Borrible,’ said Knocker.

‘Borrible,’ affirmed the other.

‘All right, Knocker,’ said Napoleon. ‘I’ll ask the questions. You ain’t on this expedition, remember, and anyhow I’m captain of this ship.’ He crouched down before the captive. ‘If you’re a Borrible, where do you come from? Not from London, not with that accent.’

‘No,’ said the foreigner, and he laughed. ‘I’m from Hamburg.’

‘Blimey,’ said Orococco, ‘an immigrant.’

‘Cut that out,’Rococco,’ said Napoleon angrily.‘We haven’t got time for joking.’

‘Who’s joking?’ said the black Borrible.

‘What’s your name?’

‘My name,’ said the prisoner, trying to draw himself up proudly even though he was bound hand and foot, ‘is Adolf Wolfgang Amadeus.’

‘Swipe me,’ said Torreycanyon in disbelief. ‘Three names! Don’t they have the same rules in Hamburg?’